


Doses & Mimosas

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon, Established Relationship, Roommates, Season 3 Reunion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompts for when I am drinking and at my most charitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Tipsy Bellarke"

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is tierannasaurusrex.tumblr.com sometimes i do things there.
> 
> title from Cherub

“Look,” Clarke waved her empty bottle in his face. He’s pretty sure she didn’t realize it was empty. “This is a terrible idea.” She frowned a little at her arm, like it wasn’t where she wanted it to be. Bellamy carefully pushed it away from his face, just in case.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” He wasn’t even drunk, to be honest. He’d sobered up before they’d even left the apartment—but Clarke was only comfortable being drunk when she thought everyone else was too, so he let it slide.

Clarke pointed up at the fire escape directly above them, like it was the answer she was looking for. Bellamy stared helplessly back.

“They’re watching,” she hissed, and it was a testament to how good a friend he was, that he didn’t start laughing right then and there.

“ _Who’s_ watching?” he whispered back, because he might as well go with it, right? Clarke was never this ridiculous. He wanted it to last as long as possible.

” _They are_ ,” she said, a little frantic.

“God, ghosts, or aliens?” he asked, and she hit him with her bottle. Just on the arm, so it didn’t break, because she didn’t _really_ want to hurt him. But he knew she could, if she wanted to, so he pried it from her hand.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, and then flailed her hand a little, probably trying to snap her fingers, which was her go-to Got It pose. “Ah! Puppies!”

“Puppies,” he agreed. “You wanted to free the puppies your shitty neighbor’s apartment.”

“He doesn’t deserve them,” she declared, and stretched her arms to the fire escape, like she might possibly reach the run eight feet above her head.

Truthfully, Bellamy only allowed her to come out this far because he was hoping the brisk November air might clear her head. Clearly, it didn’t.

“Maybe we should try again in the morning,” he suggested, and Clarke flailed once more before seeming to give up. She slumped against him, and he swung an arm around her shoulders to keep her standing up.

For totally platonic, best friend reasons. Because he is the _best_ best friend of all time.

Definitely not because he liked the feel of her, shivering a little, and pressed up against him. Definitely not because when they stood like this, he could smell her shampoo without much effort. Definitely not.

“M’cold,” she sniffed, kicking at the pavement like it had personally wronged her. He’s pretty sure that was only because she couldn’t kick the cold air.

Clarke gets equally affectionate and violent when drunk, which is simultaneously the best and worst thing ever. Usually it meant he had to suffer through her sudden urge to arm-wrestle, before she eventually passed out on his lap.

“Octavia would be able to rescue the puppies,” Clarke said miserably, and Bellamy tightened his grip on her shoulders.

O had recently moved to New Zealand, to work as a stunt double for some Lord of the Rings video game. It’s her dream job, and they were happy for her. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch her leave.

“She would’ve back-flipped up to that fire escape, no problem,” he agreed, and Clarke hummed against his chest.

“You’re the best, though,” she said muzzily, and Bellamy couldn’t bite back his grin. It didn’t really matter anyway; she wasn’t looking, and she wouldn’t remember this in the morning. Clarke has the worst drunk memory of all time.

“I am, yeah,” he said. “But what, specifically, am I the best at this time?”

“You’re the best _puppy_ ,” Clarke said, like it was obvious. At his blank stare, she withdrew her hand from his coat pocket, and started counting reasons off her fingers. “You’re loyal, and warm, and protective, and cute, and my best friend.”

Ah, so now she was affectionate Clarke. As if proving him right, she snuggled back into his side with a sigh.

Truthfully speaking, nights like this were the reason he was looking at new apartments on Craigslist. Not because he didn’t like being Clarke’s roommate— _god_ , he loved being Clarke’s roommate. She was probably the best roommate ever, objectively speaking. She always washed her dishes instantly, and she was never late with rent.

But she also did things like _this_ , where she made it impossible for him to not be in love with her.

It would be different, if he knew she might feel the same, but. She didn’t, and she never would, and he’d have to get over her, which he really couldn’t do if he had to see her face every day.

“But that’s why we’re not,” Clarke paused, and then mashed her hands together, clasping the fingers. He was kind of having trouble following her train of thought.

“We’re not what?” he asked, nudging her a little to get her back on track. Clarke blinked a few times, trying to remember her point.

“We’re not the same side,” she sighed, sadly, and Bellamy frowned.

“What? Yes we are. I’m always on your side, Clarke.” Honestly, he had no idea why she didn’t know that, already. _How_ could she not know?

“No,” she shook her head. “You’re dog side, and I’m cat side, and that’s why we can’t mate.”

Bellamy choked on absolutely nothing, and froze. They were just ten feet from the door of their building, but his feet actively refused to go further, until he understood.

“Why we can’t _mate_?”

Clarke gave him an unimpressed look that clearly said _you’re an idiot_. “You know,” she mashed her hands together again, like some crude junior high gesture.

The whole night was beginning to feel like a very weird, surreal dream.

“I thought puppies might help,” she added, softer. “I thought they might make you stay. You like dogs.”

“Clarke,” Bellamy said, a little strangled, and moved half a step forward—he needed to know this wasn’t the cherry-lime wine coolers they’d found tucked in the back of their fridge. He needed to know this was her, this was _real_. “What are you saying?”

“I want you to stay,” she said, waving a hand around, a little desperate. “You’re the _best_. You’re my—you’re mine. I want you.”

And then she closed the distance, tripping a little over her feet, and kissed him on the mouth. She tasted like club soda and cheap alcohol and a little bit like her peppermint gum, and he let her kiss him for a single minute before stepping away.

“Clarke, you’re drunk,” he said, rubbing his hands up her shoulders. She’d refused to put on a jacket before they’d left, and now she was covered in goosebumps. She didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m _tipsy_ ,” she argued, pouting a little, and he laughed, tucking her under his arm.

“All the same, I’d rather come back to this in the morning.” It’d be sort of like a test, to see if she really meant it. If she remembers it in the morning, it’s real. If she doesn’t, he’ll keep searching for minimally creepy new roommates.

“Don’t forget,” she warned, as he put her to bed.

He pressed a kiss to her hair, and she sighed. “I won’t.”

Bellamy wakes up before her, of course, which means he has just enough time to have a minor panic attack, and then start making scrambled eggs.

He’s just finishing them on the stove, when Clarke wanders in, hair tangled from sleep and eyes still squinty. She heaves herself up on the bar stool, lays her head on the counter, looks up at him, and sighs.

“I meant it when I called you a puppy,” she says, worrying her lip a little, and he sets the spatula down with a smile. “I meant everything else, too,” she adds, just in case.

“Thank god,” he grins, crossing over to her, taking her face in his hands.

He kisses her back, this time.


	2. "Matchmaking"

“You’re serious,” Bellamy says, as soon as he notices Clarke isn’t laughing like she should be, because what she’s just said is _ridiculous_.

She shrugs, tipping back her Sam Adams without a word—which means _yes_ , obviously.

“You run a matchmaking service out of your _sex shop_ ,” he echoes, and she snorts a little beer through her nose.

“Stop calling it that,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s a _kink_ shop. No one actually has sex in my shop. And also, yes, I do. It’s convenient for the customers, to feel like they have a dating platform where they won’t be shamed for liking what they like.”

“Okay, I get that,” he agrees, flagging the bartender for another round. “So, can I put in a video, or a form, or whatever? Is there a survey? Do I have to be vetted?”

Clarke rolls her eyes harder, which he didn’t even think was possible. “ _No_ , you can’t. You don’t even like kink!”

Bellamy shrugs. He’d met Clarke, weirdly, at his sister’s bachelorette party, which was held at her shop. He’d never gone in, because he’d just sort of assumed it’d be all leather gimp suits and dildos with knives on the ends, and frankly that just wasn’t his style.

But Clarke’s shop was actually kind of cute, like her, and clean, and had the kind of relaxed atmosphere he didn’t know a kink shop _could_ have. It felt more like a coffee shop than anything else, really—a place you could meet friends or parents or study for semester finals.

She’d also given him a pretty stern talking to on the evils of kink-shaming, backed up with facts and a brief history lesson on kink in general, and thus a friendship was born.

Now they get together every other night at the local pub to get drunk and share their best customer stories. Bellamy runs a second-hand bookstore a few blocks over from Clarke’s shop, and their customer base overlaps a strangely large amount.

“I’m open-minded,” he shrugs, and Clarke looks skeptical.

“ _You’re_ interested in kink,” she says, clearly disbelieving, and he’s not sure if he should feel insulted.

“Hey, I am layered,” he defends, and she laughs so hard she has to lean her head on his should to stay upright. “Maybe I just need to find the right teacher.”

She pulls back to look at him, and he means to wink, or waggle his eyebrows, somehow turning it into a joke. They’ve reached this moment a few times before, but they always break it with a well-timed gag, or something. He does, because he knows there’s more at stake than he usually likes in his one night stands—he _likes_ Clarke, and he doesn’t want to lose her. And, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t really want her to be a one night stand.

He’s not sure if she’s doing it for the same reasons, but. He can hope.

But her eyes don’t let him go, this time. There’s no gag. There’s just them, with less space between them than ever before, and he _knows_ he’s not imagining her eyes flicking to his mouth each second.

“I’ll teach you everything I know,” she suggests, sounding uncharacteristically shy, like she could possibly think he’s not interested in everything she has to offer. “I can make a lesson plan, and everything.”

Bellamy grins, brushing his nose against her cheek, leaning in so their lips touch as he speaks. “Sounds good to me.”

When he wakes up in the morning, he’s lying on his stomach in Clarke’s bed, and he can tell she’s awake right beside him.

He lifts himself up on his elbow, grinning down at her, where she’s watching him, studying, like she’s waiting to see if he’ll panic.

“So, be honest,” he says, trailing a hand up her stomach. “You didn’t want to put me in your dating service, because you wanted to keep me all to yourself.”

Clarke huffs a laugh, biting his fingers when they drift near her mouth. “Yeah, definitely,” she says, dry. “We’re a match made in heaven.”

Except she sounds a little more sarcastic about it than he’d like, so Bellamy makes the next kiss deep and slow, licking into her until he feels her toes curl beneath him. Then he pulls back and grins. “Something like that.”


	3. "Why Are We Doing This?"

“Why are we doing this?” Clarke asked. 

Bellamy thought the question over for a moment and then said “Why not?”

“Because we’re drunk,” she sighed, looking dejectedly at the empty bottles littering the floor. They were playing bowling with them and a balled up tube sock earlier, and she’s not sure where that went. “And it’s not healthy.”

“For us or the dog?” Bellamy mused, carefully placing another goldfish cracker on the leg of their Labrador. It was a miracle Delphi hadn’t woken up, yet.

But, she was partially deaf and blind, so that may have had something to do with it. Clarke blamed the name–she thought it jinxed their dog, or something. Bellamy, of course, thought it was genetics, but. What did he know about dog genetics, anyway? It still could have been the name.

“Come on,” Clarke brushed the goldfish crumbs off her shirt, and stood, only wobbling a little, before sticking a hand out for Bellamy to take. 

Instead, he grabbed hold of her wrist, to stare at her finger. He’s been doing that a lot lately–staring, touching it whenever he had the chance, grinning stupidly at the ring and spinning it around her finger, like he’d never get tired of reminding himself it’s there.

“So, feel married yet?” she asked, letting him lean on her as they stumbled towards the bedroom.

Bellamy smiled, like she knew he would, and dragged her down with him onto the bed without even taking off their jeans, yet. They’d only been married for a few weeks, now. She should give it time to sink in, time to turn them into that nightmare couple, that never talk about anything worthwhile, and go to bed alone. 

But for some reason, she’s not holding her breath for that to happen. She just didn’t see them running out of things to talk about, logistically speaking.

Bellamy scooped a hand around her stomach, dragging her over until she’s practically on top of him. “I’ve felt married for a while now,” he sighed happily, and she grinned against the skin of his neck.

“Yeah,” she agreed, stroking the iron band on his finger. She gets it.

She’s been feeling married for a while, too.

 


	4. "Slick"

“Oh, I bet you think you’re real slick, don’t you,” Clarke accused, and Bellamy gaped back, a little hopeless.

“ _Real slick–_ who even  _talks_  like that?”

Clarke mimed shooting him with finger guns, before her left leg seemed to collapse underneath her and she looked like one of those car dealership dolls, trying to get back up. “I do, champ!”

Bellamy scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to stay calm, but–it was getting pretty difficult. He wasn’t sure why the girl from his sociology class that he’d been crushing on for  _months_  finally decided to show up at his doorstep plastered, but. Here she was, tangling her arms up in her shirt as it got caught over her head.

She was kind of a mess, and if anything that should have curbed his interest in her, but instead he just found it  _endearing_ , christ, he was fucked.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” he reached over to help free her arms, sliding the shirt back down (tragically) before gripping her shoulders. “Okay, so you’re definitely sleeping in my bed, and I’ll take the couch.”

Clarke frowned, clearly not a fan of that idea. “But what about the sex?” she demanded, and he sighed against the wall. He really didn’t need to be reminded of that, right now. Not when she was so drunk that she magically turned into a greaser from the fifities. 

But Clarke was adamant, and crossed her arms, standing her ground. “You promised me, and I quote,  _I’ll take care of you princess_ ,” she mimicked in a ridiculously low voice, squinting a little with the effort.

He laughed. He couldn’t really help it. It’s laugh or cry at this point, and he’s already dehydrated as it was.

“I am gonna take care of you,” he pointed out, steering her towards the bedroom. “I’ll set out a bucket and everything, for when you inevitably puke.”

Clarke made a face. “You’re not very good at getting me in the mood.”

“Good.”

She ignored him, letting him sit her on the bed so he could peel off her socks, still wet and stuck to her skin from the rain. “Lucky thing I’m always in the mood around you,” she chirped, and he pulled her sock so hard he fell back on his ass.

She looked smug about it, the brat.

He managed to get her jean skirt off without getting groped  _too_  much–apparently drunk Clarke is very handsy–and set out the bathroom waste basket, as promised, by the head of his bed.

She was blinking up at him, slow and lazy, clearly more ready for sleep than she’d wanted to let on, and he turned to leave.

Clarke grabbed at his arm. “Stay,” she said, quiet and hopeful. “We don’t have to–just, stay. We can spoon, or whatever.”

“You really know how to woo a guy, Griffin.” 

But he’s sliding in beside her, so clearly she really does.

“I’m gonna kiss you in the morning,” she says, firm, like a declaration of war, and he huffs a laugh, because  _she’s ridiculous_.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, switching the lamp off, and letting her roll him over so she’s the big spoon, with her arm thrown over his side, protective. “As long as you don’t vomit, first.”

She does vomit first, in the middle of the night, and he holds her hair back until it’s finished, and then lets her use his toothbrush to rinse out her mouth.

He still kisses her in the morning.


	5. "S3 Reunion Hug"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I NEED FIC OF BELLARKE REUNITING WITH THAT HUG AND MAYBE THIS TIME BELLAMY RUNS TO HER (LOOK AT WHERE HIS HANDS ARE) AND THEY EMBRACE AND FOR JUST A MOMENT EVERYTHING IS OKAY IN THE WORLD, EVERYTHING IS RIGHT AGAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, [here is my tumblr](http://tierannasaurusrex.tumblr.com/)  
> sometimes i do things there.

“I heard you got married.”

Bellamy doesn’t bother to turn as Clarke comes up to sit down beside him.

They’re at the edge of a cliff, near what used to be the Blue Ridge Mountains; he’d looked it up on a pre-atomic map they’d found in some bunker. The local Grounders call it _Indav Worlte–_ End of the World.

He’d like to think he chose this spot because he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but that’s not quite it. He chose it because he knew Clarke would find him here, and no one else would, and he hates that that still seems to be his go-to strategy. Him and Clarke, versus the world. He hates it because he knows it’s not true, not really. It’s him, just him, all over again. Bellamy versus the world, while Clarke goes to find herself, or _whatever-the-fuck_ her excuse was. He didn’t bother to stick around and hear it.

“You should’ve been there,” he says, and gives a dry laugh when she winces. He didn’t even mean it like that, meant it as a joke, but. It’s true; she _should_  have been there. Should have been there for a lot of things. “The wedding party was a hit.”

“Heard about that too,” she says, tone a little sympathetic. Like she’s not sure if she should really be sorry or not. She’s gauging his reaction, and twisting her emotions in turn, and he _hates_  that it still feels so normal, just this–them at the edge of a cliff, fitting their feelings together like puzzle pieces. He hates that she’s the only one he really fits. 

“Married and widowed in one day,” he says, keeping his voice unreadable because _fuck her_ , if she wants to try to slip back into his life the way she was, he’s not going to make it easy for her. He’s not about to give an inch she doesn’t deserve. Honestly he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t even want him to. “At least the food was nice.”

“I’m sorry, Bellamy,” she says, and he knows she means it, knows that if she could go back in time and stand at his side every single day that she hadn’t, she would. And somehow, that just makes it worse, because if she’d left for a reason–if she’d _had_  to go, then maybe he’d understand it. If it didn’t feel like she’d just wasted three months of her life, of _his_  life, then maybe he wouldn’t be so goddamned _angry_.

But as it is, he’s furious, and she knows it, and it doesn’t help that she’s already seen him cry. Already seen what just the fucking fact of her has reduced him to–some blubbering idiot dripping tears and snot into her hair and fucking _breathing_  her, like smoke or some of the sticky Grounder incense, or air.

Breathing her like air. Like she’s necessary. 

He hates that that’s exactly what she is.

“It’s fine,” he sighs, and it is. Of all the times he’s missed Clarke–and _god_ , he’s fucking missed her–that sham of a wedding was not one of them. Held for some half-baked truce with a tribe that couldn’t defend their own borders–known only for _making bread_ –trading himself and some weapons for a lifetime’s worth of food and mediocre farmland hadn’t seemed like such a bad deal at the time.

Not until the neighboring tribe showed up in all their warlike glory. Animal skulls tied around their heads, like the ancient pagans that he’d read about, singing prayers to their death gods–god of bloodshed, god of slaughter, god of strife. Gods who were only satisfied by veins slit open and bashed-in skulls. The kind of gods Bellamy could never worship.

He’d watched his new wife, of just two hours, get slashed from belly to chin. He’d only learned her name that morning.

“It’s not,” Clarke says, firm, the sternest she’s been with him since he’d shown up, and Bellamy looks at her. 

He’d looked at her before, of course, back in the shaman’s house–but it was dimly lit in there, and he’d been too overwhelmed by the thought _it’s Clarke_  to really take everything in. Now he can see her face is bruised, with fresh cuts just beginning to heal. He’s not sure where they’re from, and he desperately wants to ask her–but he also doesn’t want her to know that he cares. That he’s noticed. That he notices everything about her.

He reaches out to tug on a strand of her hair. It’s blonde near the roots, familiar, until the ends drain into bright red, like they’ve been dipped in blood recently. He hopes it washes out.

“Nice look,” he smirks, because he can give her this. Something simple, to hold onto. Something she can recognize.

Clarke smiles, soft, almost not even there, but. It’s a start, at least.

It’s gone just as quickly, and then she’s looking impossibly earnest, eyes open and wet, and he almost wishes she’d shout at him, or glare, or smirk, or have literally any other expression, because god–her eyes are the deepest part of her and if he’s not careful, he’ll drown.

He’s been there, before. He barely survived, the last time. Barely clawed his way out of her, when she left. He’s still not totally sure that he made it; he thinks part of him may still be stuck, carried around inside her. He’s not sure he’ll ever get that piece back.

“I should have been there,” she says again, an echo of herself, and he frowns. He’s not sure he has it in him to fight her, not yet, maybe not ever. He’s already been fighting for too long, and he’s _tired_ , he’s so fucking tired. If someone were to offer him a shovel right now and tell him to dig his own grave, he’d do it, if only so he could crawl down inside and sleep. “To take the deal, instead.”

Bellamy stares at her for a moment, trying to make sense of her words, because–how could she not _know_? How could she not know the reason?

“Clarke, I–”

“No, Bellamy,” she interrupts, clearly on a roll, now that she’s actually started. “You deserve to marry for _love_ , and spend the rest of your life being happy with someone and starting a _family_ , and–and I should have been there and bared that, so you didn’t have to.” She works herself up as she speaks, getting louder and more determined, more convinced, until the end, where she trails off and softens. 

Bellamy still has her hair in his hand, and it’s easy to drop it, easy to twist his wrist so his palm rests heavy on the side of her neck, easy to feel her pulse jump, the quiver in her throat when she swallows.

“Princess,” he says, and the word tastes odd in his mouth, he hasn’t said it so long. But it still feels like it belongs there, somehow. The way some things are never really outgrown. “I took the deal so no one else had to give up that future. Because I didn’t have that–falling in love and getting married. That wasn’t in the cards for me, anymore.”

Clarke frowns, and he brushes the dip in her mouth with his thumb. Just the corner. She shivers. “Of course you do,” she says, and it’s cute, how she’s trying to defend his character– _to himself_. He’s not really surprised though; it’s not like this is the first time. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you left.” It’s the easiest thing in the world, as it turns out, just _saying_  it, after he’s spent so long swallowing it down. “And I didn’t think you were coming back.”

Clarke opens and closes her mouth for a bit, but she doesn’t try to move away, or shrug away from his hand, so he keeps it where it is. “Oh,” she says, eventually, and he almost laughs. It shouldn’t be this easy, he knows, it shouldn’t be so easy to forgive her, but–the truth is, it was fucking _hard_ , being mad. “I was going to come back,” she says, quiet. “I was going to leave two days from now.”

She tilts her head up, to look at him, and her eyes aren’t so wet anymore, but they’re still oceans deep enough to soak in. “I was coming back for you.”

“And the rest of the camp,” he finishes, but she shakes her head, reaching up to circle a hand around his wrist, keeping it in place.

“For _you_ ,” she says, and then grins a little. “Well, and Monty, but mostly you.”

Bellamy wets his lips, and sees her track the movement. He’s not sure what to say, not after weeks of dreaming she might say it, not after months of wishing she’d come back, months of trying to come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t going to. “Oh,” is what he settles on, and Clarke huffs a little, until he leans in.

Kissing Clarke doesn’t feel familiar at all, but it is easy, and he’s looking forward to getting used to it. 

He tugs on her hair as he pulls away, leaving her mouth looking swollen and needy. He grins a little, smug, and she hits him.

“Your hair looks awful,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes, tugging him in. His legs are still dangling over the edge, when she swings herself into his lap, and it doesn’t feel all that unnatural, kissing her at the end of the world.

“It’ll be normal again soon,” she mumbles, breath hot against his mouth.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks, pressing closer. _Sounds about right_.

 


	6. "Can-Stacking"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for kay-emm-gee
> 
> prompt: Bellamy, Clarke & co get into a competition about who can stack the highest tower of beer cans one night while drinking together.

“Hey,” Clarke punctuates the word by poking Bellamy in the face with her bottle. 

He cracks an eye open to glare at her–mostly because he doesn’t remember closing them. Also because he doesn’t remember laying down in her lap, but he is pointedly not thinking about that. He’s a drunk cuddler, Clarke knows that. Sure, it’s usually Miller who has to suffer from it, but he and Monty are currently across the room playing a seriously lopsided game of Jenga. He’s pretty sure neither of them even remember whose turn it is, and they’re just pulling out blocks at random. Monty keeps handing his off to Jasper, who’s trying to spell out a word that starts with the letter N.

“Hey,” Clarke pokes him in the face again, which seems fair since he’s not giving her attention. “What d’you wanna bet we can stack those cans to the ceiling?”

She nods her head over to the pile of empty aluminum cans lumped off to the side of the coffee table, several spilling off onto the floor, which means they’re probably staining the carpet. Normally the thought of stains gives him a stress headache, but he’s a little too drunk for that now. The cans belong to Octavia and Lincoln, who only ever seem to drink the gross hipster beer on sale at the Wegman’s. Stuff like apple-blackberry cider with an essence of buffalo gourd oil. 

Clarke thumps him on the forehead with her perfectly mainstream Yuengling. “Earth to Bueller,” she frowns, and he makes a face back at her, sitting up. “So are you in?”

“Obviously,” he says, because it is, and she grins. It’s probably a little bit dangerous, being this drunk in such close proximity to her. Usually they get drunk together in public, or in a room full of friends. 

And while the room _is_  currently filled with their friends, they all seem to have paired off together, which brings him back to the danger. It’s not that he doesn’t _trust_  himself–he’s not an idiot. He knows he can’t say anything, do anything to risk his best friend. He knows she doesn’t feel the same way, and he’s not about to make everything uncomfortable.

But it just feels so _possible_ , when the world’s a little blurred and warm, and her breath is sticky on his skin, they’re so close. 

Bellamy clears his throat, and the effect is immediate. “Okay,” he says to the room at large. “Who’s up for a can-stacking competition?”

There’s a moment of silence where everyone just sort of stares, which. Yeah, that’s fair, even he can’t really believe what he’s just said. Bellamy’s not exactly a group-contest type of guy.

Raven recovers first, as usual. “A _what_?”

“We’re stacking all of Octavia’s gross beer cans,” Clarke clarifies, and O makes a little noise of outrage from the kitchen, where it’s very possible she just collapsed on the floor and decided to stay there. Octavia likes to pass out where she stands, like a cat. Bellamy’s found her in the front yard before, face-down in the Hydrangeas. 

“Okay, but what are the logistics of this competition?” Jasper asks, instantly going into IT-mode instantly, even though just seconds ago he was nearly in a tequila coma from the illegal Colombian booze Monty buys online whenever he’s high.

“The what, now?” O asks, having peeled herself from the tile floor. She’s half-leaning on Lincoln, but still looks ready to slit a man’s throat with one of her intricate acrylic nails. She takes competitions very seriously.

“Like, teams or partners,” Jasper explains. “Is it mom versus dad or mom and dad versus us?”

“Mom and dad?” Clarke asks.

“That’s not important,” Jasper says. “Partners, then. Clarke and Bellamy, Octavia and Lincoln, Raven and Wells, Monty and Miller.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“I’m the referee,” he says. “Obviously.”

“And here I was thinking we could just stack them on top of each other and call it a night,” Bellamy says, dry.

“And when they inevitably fell, throw them at each other like softballs until the last man standing won,” Clarke agrees, clinking her bottle to his. “Or woman,” she adds, and they clink bottles again.

“Ready to go kick their asses?” he asks, glancing over at where three separate football huddles are taking place in his living room. 

“Totally,” she grins. “Let’s go discipline our kids, Bell.”

He’s about to ask, seriously, _our kids?_ , but then Clarke puts both hands on his shoulders for support, before she stands up on her toes to kiss him.

It’s quick, and mostly chaste, but _warm_  and wet and sticky from the alcohol. It’s perfect, and done way too quickly, and Bellamy chases her mouth when she pulls back.

“What the hell was that?” He’s dazed, but not from the booze, and Clarke’s beaming up at him, all pink and a little bit nervous.

“That was your incentive.”

“Incentive for what?” He’s got his hands on her neck now, thumbs brushing against her pulse so he can feel how quick it’s running. He’s never seen her like this before–nervous and a little shy. He’s used to smooth, sarcastic, witty Clarke. The Clarke that’s always got a comeback on the tip of her tongue, the one that people fall in love with after a three-minute dart game at some neighborhood pub. 

But this Clarke is blushing, pulse jumping with nerves, and it makes the whole thing feel more real, somehow. He might actually _get_  this.

“For winning,” she rolls her eyes. “Obviously. I was trying to make it easy for you, but then you had to involve everyone else.”

“Sorry,” he grins, and ducks down to press his mouth to hers, even quicker, barely even a kiss. Just a bookmark, that he’s hoping to get back to.

“So,” she says, folding their hands together. Across the room, Miller and Raven are arguing about which can they should make the proverbial keystone, while Wells tries to mediate, and Jasper films everything on the new high-tech Japanese phone that he’s obsessed with. “Are _you_  ready to kick their asses?”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, letting her lead the way. Despite the beer, he feels more wired than he has in weeks. Everything feels possible. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”


	7. "Bellamy You Are This Cat"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for ravenclawpianist
> 
> prompt: "oh my god, Bellamy, we have to get this cat." "Why?" "It's you!" "I am not the cat." "BUT YOU ARE!"

Bellamy isn’t really sure how Octavia managed to convince Clarke to go kitten-shopping with her at the local AMCA, but since Clarke only has a vespa, and Octavia’s recently gone on some sort of bike-only-kick, Bellamy’s their ride.

It also means that since his ancient truck has a bench seat, and O predictably shouted “SHOTGUN!” the moment they stepped outside, he’s spent the last twenty-five minutes with Clarke pressed all up against him until he thought he might die. 

“We’re here!” Octavia announces, completely unnecessarily, as Bellamy pulls into the parking lot.

“Thanks for letting us know,” he says. “I’ll alert the media.” Clarke pokes him in the side of the neck.

“Be nice,” she says, but there’s a grin playing at the corner of her mouth, so the effect is kind of lost. “O already promised to ply you with free shots for the rest of the month.”

“The rest of the _week_ ,” O corrects, hopping out of the truck. 

“We’ll work on that,” Clarke promises, patting his knee comfortingly. Bellamy swats her hand away.

“I really don’t care,” he says, probably for the sixth time that day. “Let’s just get whatever demon O decides on, and go home.”

“You’re such a grump,” Clarke says, but she sounds fond about it, which really doesn’t really help the fact that he’s falling in love with her. 

Living together doesn’t help either, but there’s not much he can do about that, aside from moving out, which will never happen since he’s just got three more months on his lease, or making _Clarke_  move out, which will also never happen, because while living with the girl he’s in love with is torture, never seeing her would be even worse.

“Hurry up, assholes!” Octavia calls from across the lot, because she loves them.

“God, what a brat,” he grumbles, as Clarke loops her arm through his. She’s only been his roommate for three months now, and she’s been slowly but surely worming her way into his universe until he can’t imagine himself without her. 

Also she keeps inviting him to things like Sunday luncheons at her work, and karaoke nights with her friends. He’s pretty sure she’s convinced he would starve to death in his apartment without her, and just rot away until some neighborhood stray cats snuck in and started to eat his face. He’s not convinced she’s wrong.

“Yeah, who raised her?” she teases, and they step inside.

Octavia’s already chosen her cat–a sleek little silver kitten, looking stoic in its corner as the rest of the kittens tumble all over each other with their too-big paws and ears and whiskers, tails sticking straight up in the air like pins. They look like tiny fuzzy bumper cars.

“I’m naming her Asteria,” O says, because of course she already has a name picked out. Bellamy turns to find Clarke bent over, cooing at one of the older cats, pressing her fingers up to the bars of its cage.

“Princess,” he warns, because he _knows_  what the cooing means and _goddammit, Clarke_ , he’d fucking told her they couldn’t get a pet, when she first signed on as his roommate.

“Bellamy,” she calls back, not even bothering to look at him, which means she’s already gone and he’s fucked. “We have to get this cat.”

“We really don’t, though.”

 _Now_ she turns, looking a little exasperated, which she has no right to be. “But it’s _you_!”

Bellamy blinks over at her, waiting for a punchline that never comes. She _knows_  how he feels about cats, and it is decidedly not great. “Come again?”

“This cat,” she repeats, turning back to it, cooing all over again. “It’s you, Bell. We have to get him.”

Bellamy glances around her shoulder to get a better look at the thing, and he’s honestly not sure if he should feel offended or not. It’s obviously older than all the other cats, wiry but a little thick around the edges, with a torn-up ear and some serious battle scars across its nose and weird cat eyebrows. It looks _mean_ , and when Bellamy takes half a step closer, it rears back and hisses so hard it spits.

“Yeah, he’s a real charmer,” he says, dry, and Clarke gives him a look.

“I said he was _you_ , dumbass, what did you expect? We need him.” When he glares back at her, she softens a little, and he fucking _knows_  she’s working him over, alright, but he can’t _help it_. “Please, Bell? I need him.”

He still heaves the biggest sigh of his entire life, just so she knows that he’s not happy about it. “How much is it?”

Clarke’s still filling out the paperwork for Catlas–Clarke let him name the thing, trying to butter him up, but she had to turn it into a pun because it’s _Clarke_ –when Octavia slides in beside him, her kitten sitting inside its newly purchased cat carrier, chewing on the plastic wall, trying to eat its way out to freedom.

“You should tell her,” she says, uncharacteristically quiet. Bellamy doesn’t bother pretending like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, or who. It’s been months now, and the acting’s gotten old.

“Yeah,” he agrees, because he really should. They live together, and they’ve just bought a _cat_  together. He’s pretty sure co-owning a pet is some sort of step towards a relationship. Here’s to hoping, anyway. “I will. Soon.”

He even means it, this time. 

Clarke beams up at him as she crosses over. Catlas is yowling inside his box, no doubt putting some sort of ancient cat curse on the shelter. Bellamy’s still not entirely convinced it isn’t a demon in disguise.

“Ready?” Clarke asks, taking his arm again, cat carrier in the other as O leads the way back to the truck. This close, he can smell her shampoo. Something fruity, that makes his mouth water.

“Yeah,” he says. Catlas has given up yowling in favor of gnawing on the metal bars of the carrier door. Clarke leans up against his side, and Bellamy swings an arm around her. “I was born ready.”

He’s definitely telling her. It’s now or never.


	8. "You Kissed Me On The Playground The Day Before You Moved Away"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for anon
> 
> prompt: “i’ve had a crush on you since kindergarten and we’re working on a science project together at my house but when i leave the room you dig through my stuff and find a box dedicated to you under my bed and no those aren’t the valentines day cards you gave me in the 2nd grade” au or “you kissed me on the playground the day before you moved away in the 4th grade and now your dorm is right across the hall from mine” au

If anybody asked him, Bellamy would say he hasn’t thought about Clarke Griffin in years. _Years_ , actually. Not since she moved out of town the summer before high school. Not since she got drunk at her own goodbye party and ran off to the local playground they used to meet up at. When they were kids, they’d spend hours going up and down the slides as Octavia dominated the monkey bars. They’d pretend the whole thing was a castle, and the sandbox was a desert, while the spongy cork board platform was a minefield lying in wait.

As they got older, they still hung out on the lot, but they were too old for imaginary castles and moats. Instead, they’d camp out under the slide and play _fuck marry kill_ , or sit on the swings and twist the chains, so they could spin around so fast it made their heads hurt.

At thirteen, Clarke was probably too old for that, too. At fourteen and a half, Bellamy was _definitely_  too old, but that’s where he found her anyway, in the middle of the night, so drunk she kept nearly falling backwards off the swing. She was turning slowly, absently, and kept untwisting after just two spins. Bellamy took the swing beside her.

“I don’t want to go,” she whispered, like she was telling him some secret. Like it wasn’t really obvious, with how much she and her mom had been screaming at each other lately, or how she’d downed half a bottle of some fancy champagne and then run out of her own party.

“It might be fun,” he said, but the words fell short because it was clear that he didn’t want her to go either. She was his best friend, one of his only friends really, and they’d been planning out their high school years for a while, now. Her moving away just after eighth grade didn’t factor into the plan one bit.

“It won’t,” Clarke said, firm, and then spun around a little so she was facing him. He turned and hooked their ankles together, so they could stay in place. “I’ll miss you,” she added, and then surged forward to kiss him.

It wasn’t a great kiss; it was obvious she’d never done it before, and she was drunk so it was a little sloppy, and she tasted like sticky strawberries, but she was also warm and soft and _Clarke_ , so Bellamy kissed her back until she had to pull away to breathe.

“Now I’ll really miss you,” she grinned, and he laughed. And then she threw up on their shoes.

And then she moved away, and Bellamy has definitely _not_  thought about her since. 

Which is why it’s such a shock, when he literally runs into her in the hallway, on the way to his dorm.

“Shit, sorry,” he starts, reaching out to keep the girl from falling. She’s a mess of textbooks and curly blonde hair, the kind of hair he hasn’t seen in a while. And she’s cute, and he’s seriously trying to figure out how to turn this into a pick-up, until she finally looks at him.

“Oh my god, Bellamy?” she says, and he knows pretty much instantly who she is. The mole above her lip’s kind of a dead giveaway. 

“Princess,” he says, because he’s an idiot. It’s probably creepy, that he even remembers some lame nickname from ten years ago. It’s definitely at least _weird_.

But Clarke just flushes a little, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, like it’s a nervous habit. “You got tall,” she says, a little awkward. 

Bellamy grins. The last time she’d seen him, they were roughly the same height, with her maybe a little taller. She was taller than most of the boys in her class, but it looks like she hasn’t actually grown at all since then, while Bellamy managed to shoot up another five inches. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You got,” he falters a little, because all of the things he wants to say– _cute, gorgeous, hot, beautiful_ –might make her uncomfortable and god, that might actually be the worst thing ever. He just got his childhood crush back in his life, he’s not about to fuck it up by _hitting on her_. “Fashionable,” he decides, waving a hand at her paint-stained jean capris and those expensive canvas shoes rich people like to buy. Hers are falling apart. 

Clarke raises a brow, like she knows that’s complete bullshit, but at least she doesn’t call him out on it. “So you go to school here?”

“Yeah,” he says, thankful for the topic change. School is easy, he knows how to talk about school. He’s been doing the _what’s your major_  talk for three years, now. “I’m a junior. Classics major. Actually, I’m this floor’s RA.”

“Oh,” Clarke blinks a little, surprised. She’s still so fucking _cute_ , except now they’re both past puberty and even though he’s pointedly not looking at her boobs he can still tell they’re there, and the thought of that is slowly beginning to kill him. “I just transferred over from UCLA.”

“What are you studying? Last time I saw you, you wanted to be a vet.”

Clarke laughs, and the shock of her slowly starts to fade away. They can do this, he’s pretty sure. They can be friends, hang out. It doesn’t have to be weird. Their twelve-year-old selves laid all the groundwork for them. “Well, now I want to be a designer.”

“Cool,” Bellamy nods, wracking his brain. He always knew Clarke liked drawing, but he doesn’t actually know that much about art. “Like, clothes? Or HGTV stuff?”

Clarke shrugs. “Either, both, I’m not sure. There are just so many, and I like them all.” She smiles a little helplessly, and it shouldn’t be this easy, really, slipping right back into their friendship, but. It’s almost like she never left.

Bellamy starts walking her to her dorm, just two doors down from his, which will either be incredibly convenient, or dangerous, depending. “You’ll figure it out,” he assures her. “You’ve got time.”

“Yeah,” she grins, reaching up to peck him on the cheek when they reach her door. She slips inside, and Bellamy heads to his room in a daze.

 _Definitely dangerous_ , he decides, and pulls out his phone.

_Guess who I just ran into?_

He only has to wait two seconds for a reply, because even though Octavia’s supposed to be in her chemistry class, she never lets a text go more than five minutes without responding.

_carrie fisher_

_Obviously not, I would have just texted you a selfie with her, to make you jealous_.

_this is why u’ll never be a jedi bell. ur too cruel_

_I can live with that. Clarke Griffin just transferred here._

_ur middle school gf??_

_She was never my girlfriend._

_whatever did u get her number??_

_Why would I need her number? She lives in my hall._

_omg !!!_

_Octavia what have I told you about punctuation?_

_fuck u bell 1st amendment go make out w ur gf or smth_

_Why do you have to type like that?_

_efficiency. so at least u kno when i kill u it’ll be quick <3_

Bellamy’s sort of expecting to have to run into Clarke again, to see her. Or maybe seek her out under some pretense of RA duties, or something. He’s certainly not expecting her to show up at his door that night, with a bottle of cheap ABC store whiskey, and a construction paper card.

“I figured–it’s my first night here, so you owe me a welcoming party,” she grins, shaking the bottle at him.

Bellamy moves to let her in, and she presses the card into his hands as she passes. “You’re twenty,” he points out, and she makes a face at him.

“What, are you going to bust me?”

“I am the RA,” he says, serious, and it’s hard not to laugh at how quickly Clarke’s face drops.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, you could lose your job and I–”

“Clarke,” Bellamy takes the bottle from her hands with a smile. “Relax. I’m not gonna bust you.” He grabs a pair of solo cups from the stack he keeps on his desk, and pours them each a drink. 

He hands hers off before he looks at the card, grinning stupidly in spite of himself. “I’m glad you still make these.” She used to cut out pictures from magazines or coloring books and tape them to construction paper, making cards for every occasion. She made one for him once because his goldfish died. 

This one is a lot more sophisticated than the ones she made when they were kids. It looks like something he could buy from one of those boho art stores downtown. There are pressed flowers in the cardstock, and little pearly buttons sewn along the seam. In curly inked cursive it says _I’m glad I’ve found you_. And on the inside, there’s a little doodle of two kids on a swing set. It’s a moment before Bellamy can speak again, and when he looks up, he finds Clarke looking nervous, lip pulled in between her teeth like she used to do when they were younger.

“I’m glad I’ve found you too,” he says, and she beams up at him, flushed and perfect. And before he can really stop himself, he blurts out “I kept every single one of these you gave me,” and flops the card in her face.

Clarke blinks up at him in surprise. “What, really?” She looks a little skeptical, which Bellamy obviously takes as a challenge, so he downs the whiskey–only grimacing a little, because, _god_  that is horrible and he will really need to start helping her get better alcohol. For her own good, clearly–and goes over to the tiny plywood dresser where he keeps all the shit that wouldn’t fit under the bed.

He pulls out one of the beaten up Converse shoe boxes from a drawer, and nods for her to follow him down to the floor. There’s a really soft navy blue carpet he bought from Home Depot, so it’s not actually that uncomfortable, and Clarke criss-crosses her legs and sits right up against him, leaning over to watch as he opens the box.

They’re all there, of course; he wouldn’t lie about that. He’s thought about throwing them out, or at least some of them, every time he goes through one of his spring cleaning phases where he has to get rid of all his clutter before it kills him in his sleep. But something’s always held him back.

It was the last bit of Clarke he had, and maybe it was stupid or sentimental, but. It felt important, to him.

And Clarke seems to agree, sifting through the piles, looking delighted each time she finds a valentine from second grade, covered in Sleeping Beauty stickers, because that was his favorite princess.

“You always really liked her and I never knew why,” Clarke laughs, rubbing at where one of the stickers has peeled away and curled in on itself, from age.

“She looked like you,” he says, because no matter how awful the whiskey is, it’s still whiskey and it does its job right. And because if he doesn’t tell her now, he probably never will, and honestly if nothing else she at least deserves to know.

Clarke’s head snaps up to stare at him, mouth puckered out in an _o_. It’s a little nerve-wracking but mostly hilarious–everyone knew about his crush on her. The other eighth graders used to make fun of him for it.

He smiles down at her, so she knows that he’s alright with it, he’s not pressuring her or looking for anything else. He just wanted her to know. He’d always sort of wondered what might have happened, if he’d told her when they were kids, still figuring shit like that out. He’d always sort of regretted not finding out.

“Aladdin was my favorite,” Clarke blurts, sounding a little helpless. “Because he reminded me of you.”

Bellamy’s not really sure who moves first, but suddenly she’s scrambling into his lap, and he’s pulling her in against him, and her mouth is hot and insistent on his, moving in time with her hips as she grinds down on him.

“You’ve gotten better at this,” he says, breath jagged, as Clarke moves to trail wet kisses down his neck. 

“I’ve had practice,” she says, and he can feel the flash of her teeth when she grins against his skin. His hands flirt with the hem of her shirt, until she just moves back to pull it off herself, and then he’s not sure if anything else happens because for the next few moments he can really only stare at her chest.

Eventually, he comes back to himself, glancing up with a shaky smile. “Sorry,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss her, softer and slower, so she knows he means it.

“Don’t be,” she says, more of a whimper, curling her hands into his hair. “So, what’s the policy on RA’s dating their sophomores?” She pulls back with a hopeful smile.

“It’s not, like, against the rules or anything, but they don’t like it.” He leans in to run his mouth over her throat until she moans again.

“Awesome,” she gasps when his hand rubs up her thigh. “I’ve always wanted to sneak around with a secret boyfriend.”

“College is when you’re supposed to rebel,” he agrees, and she laughs into his mouth.

Bellamy moves to press his face against her hair, breathing her in. She smells like paint and shampoo and peppermint toothpaste, and he is never letting go.

“I’m _really_  glad I found you,” he sighs, and she throws her arms around him, hugging him just as tight.

“Me too,” she says, and it’s basically the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Bellamy wakes up with Clarke half on top of him in his tiny dorm bed, back bare and hair tangled, and marks running down her throat and chest, that he put there. He takes a moment to take it all in, before he has to reach over her to snatch his phone up, when it goes off.

Clarke makes a little unhappy noise in her sleep and rolls towards him, sighing happily once she’s on top of his chest. He has to spit out her hair and hold his phone above her head, to type, but he doesn’t even care.

_Queen O, Empress Extraordinaire: did u get her number yet??_

Bellamy bites back a grin and types _No_ , because it’s technically true.

_u r a disappointment bell_

He almost debates not telling her. But Octavia is newly sixteen, and if she finds out he kept something like a long-lost secret girlfriend from her, she actually _might_  kill him. 

_But she is my girlfriend now, so there’s that._

The next few texts from his sister are nothing but a lot of exclamation marks and some emoji’s he doesn’t understand. 

Then finally she sends, _u both should have just done this sooner and saved urself like 7yrs of pathetic_

Bellamy looks over at where Clarke’s buried her face in his side. He can see the curve of her smile, and she keeps snuffling a little in her sleep, like her nose might be stuffed. He reaches down to smooth the snarled hair from her face, and she sighs, leaning into his hand.

 _Yeah_ , he texts, _But we got there eventually._


	9. Rellamy Bros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt from anon: (I think you like Rellamy from what I've seen on your blog, really sorry if I misinterpreted this!) Modern AU with Raven and Bellamy working on an elementary school project?
> 
> sorry, i only ship rellamy as bros, so have some 10 year olds bein cute and stuff.

Bellamy meets Raven on the playground and, like always, he immediately starts a fight.

That’s how kids work; you fight and either you make up and you’re friends for life or you’re nemeses forever, no inbetween. 

So Bellamy starts the fight, but Raven finishes it, and when they can both agree that she’s won the rights to the monkey bars, she rolls her eyes and _deigns_  to let him have a turn. She’s basically a brat, but. So is he, so he can’t really complain.

Much.

“Ugh, you just _had_  to pick Italy,” Raven grumbles, for the _tenth_  time since they got home. _Home_  being Bellamy’s house, because they never hang out at hers. Bellamy can’t remember the last time he went there. Even Raven doesn’t like the place.

They’re sprawled out over his floor, stomachs flat on the scratchy surface of his carpet. The door’s shut, but he can still hear _meowing_  from downstairs, where his sister and her blonde best friend are pretending to be house cats. 

There’s a particularly loud one, and Raven shakes her head. “Kids are weird.”

Bellamy grins. “ _We’re_ kids,” he points out. They recently both turned ten, in their last year at Ark Elementary, and Raven keeps trying to make a big deal out of it.

“Yeah, but we don’t count,” Raven says sagely. “We’re both double digits now.”

Bellamy flicks a marker at her, and points to the poster board they’re stenciling some letters on. It’s for history class, which as far as Bellamy is concerned, is a joke. They only seem to want to talk about the Revolutionary War, and Lewis and Clark–nothing about the ancient Greeks and Romans, or even Alexander the Great. 

The big end-of-year project is just a ten-minute presentation to the class about a country of their choice. And, since Raven was in the bathroom when the groups got to choose, Bellamy picked Italy. She still hasn’t forgiven him; she wanted Mexico, because then she could just have her grandma make some empanadas, and they’d get an A for sure. 

But instead they’re doing Italy, and Bellamy’s trying to write in the cool Roman numeral-looking letters, but he’s not the best at art, and Raven’s being insanely unhelpful, doodling robots in the corner of the board. 

She’s been putting robots on everything lately. He’s pretty sure she’s obsessed.

“Stop that,” he swats her hand away when she tries to put a space helmet on his crude statue of David. Raven sighs dramatically and rolls over to press her mouth against the carpet.

She mumbles something he can’t hear, words muffled by the rug. He throws another marker at her, so she looks up with a glare.

“What?”

“I’m starving,” she says again, this time so he can understand it. “Did your mom buy any more ice cream sandwiches?”

Another meow sounds from downstairs, and Bellamy shrugs, stretching his shoulders as he stands. “One way to find out, right?”

Raven grins, bouncing up immediately. “Last one down’s the king of dorks,” she sing-songs, shoving him out of her way.

Bellamy just rolls his eyes and lets her get a head start; he’s been best friends with Raven Reyes for the past five years, so he knows not to bother competing with her. She always wins.


End file.
